* 


HOMER  MARTIN 

A  REMINISCENCE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/homermartinreminOOmart 


HOMER  MARTIN 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  England  in  1892 


HOMER  MARTIN 

A  REMINISCENCE 


OCTOBER  28,  1836— FEBRUARY  12,  1897 


NEW  YORK 
WILLIAM  MACBETH 
1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by  William  Macbeth 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT  OF  HOMER  MARTIN  .    .    .  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

NORMANDY  TREES   6 

THE  DUNES   12 

ON  THE  HUDSON   18 

BLOSSOMING  TREES  .    .  24 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE   28 

THE  CRIQUEBCEUF  CHURCH   32 

GOLDEN  SANDS   36 

ON  THE  SEINE  ("HARP  OF  THE  WINDS")  .  40 

TREES  NEAR  VILLERVILLE   46 

CAPE  TRINITY   52 

A  NEWPORT  LANDSCAPE   56 


The  publisher  cordially  thanks  the  friends  who  kindly  lent  the  pictures 
which  have  been  reproduced  to  illustrate  these  pages. 


INTRODUCTION 

During  the  last  year  I  have  more  than 
once  been  told  that  an  authoritative  bio- 
graphical sketch  of  my  husband  ought  to 
be  written  and  I  have  never  felt  inclined  to 
dispute  the  statement  as  an  abstract  propo- 
sition. But  when  it  is  followed  by  the  di- 
rect question:  "  Who  so  capable  of  writing 
it  as  you?  "  the  names  of  one  or  two  of  his 
personal  friends  inevitably  present  them- 
selves as  belonging  to  practised  writers  and 
connoisseurs  of  art,  who  might,  perhaps, 
need  the  aid  of  dates  or  facts  I  could  sup- 
ply, but  who,  in  more  essential  respects, 
would  be  altogether  better  equipped  for  the 
task.  Homer  Martin  was  so  intensely  mas- 
culine, so  preeminently  a  man's  man,  that 
he  must  necessarily  have  escaped  thorough 
comprehension  by  any  woman.  And  this, 
I  think,  is  the  chief  reason  why  I  have  so 
long  delayed,  why  I  am  even  now  inclined 
to  shirk  altogether,  the  fulfilment  of  my 

[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 


reluctant  promise  to  put  on  paper  some  of 
my  memories  of  the  years  we  spent  to- 
gether. 

The  question  made  me  smile  when  it  was 
propounded  more  than  a  year  ago,  but 
since  then  it  has  often  made  me  ponder. 
Doubtless  no  one  else  has  had  so  long  and 
intimate  an  acquaintance  with  various 
phases  of  his  character  and  circumstances; 
doubtless,  too,  it  was  not  merely  as  an  ar- 
tist that  he  commanded  attention  and  at- 
tracted life-long  friends.  Yet  I  suppose 
it  must  be  solely  in  this  character  that  he 
appeals  to  the  majority  of  those  who  are 
now  attaining  to  a  tardy  appreciation  of  his 
achievement  as  a  whole.  It  is  not  in  my 
power  to  hasten  that.  When  I  first  met 
him  my  ignorance  of  art— at  any  rate  on  its 
pictorial  side — was  dense;  and  if  it  has 
been  somewhat  mitigated  since,  that  result 
is  due  solely  to  him  and  largely  to  his  own 
works.  Is  not  this  tantamount  to  express- 
ing my  conviction  that  those  who  wish  to 
increase  their  knowledge  of  Homer  Mar- 
tin as  an  artist  can  do  so  much  more  satis- 
[  viii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

factorily  by  studying  the  landscapes  into 
which  he  has  put  as  much  of  his  best  self 
as  any  man  could  part  with  and  live,  than 
by  reading  anything  I  find  it  possible  to 
say  about  him  ?  Aspects  of  external  nature 
are  inextricably  blended  in  these  with  the 
mind,  moods,  and  personality  of  the  painter. 
Years  before  he  had  quite  succeeded  in  mas- 
tering his  material,  I  remember  the  late 
John  Richard  Dennett  saying  of  them: 
"  Martin's  landscapes  look  as  if  no  one  but 
God  and  himself  had  ever  seen  the  places." 
There  is  an  austerity,  a  remoteness,  a  cer- 
tain savagery  in  even  the  sunniest  and  most 
peaceful  of  them,  which  were  also  in  him, 
and  an  instinctive  perception  of  which  had 
made  me  say  to  him  in  the  very  earliest  days 
of  our  acquaintance  that  he  reminded  me  of 
Ishmael.  They  formed,  I  think,  the  sub- 
stratum of  his  personality.  Needless  to 
add,  for  those  who  knew  him  even  slightly, 
that  he  had  other  phases.  Though  the 
human  verb  in  him  was  one  and  singular, 
its  moods  were  many. 

Elizabeth  Gilbert  Martin. 

[ix] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


A  REMINISCENCE 


OMER  DODGE  MARTIN, 
fourth  child  and  youngest  son 
of  Homer  Martin  and  Sarah 
Dodge,  was  born  in  Albany, 
N.  Y.,  in  a  house  on  Park  Street,  October 
28, 1836.  That  was  my  own  native  city,  but 
although  we  must  have  lived  for  years  in 
the  same  neighborhood,  he  was  past  twenty- 
two  and  I  in  my  twenty-first  year  when  we 
first  became  acquainted.  But  for  the  anti- 
slavery  movement  which  split  the  Metho- 
dist body  first  into  two  great  sections  and 
then  into  minor  subdivisions,  we  might  have 
met  much  earlier,  for,  in  our  childhood,  our 
parents  had  attended  the  same  place  of 
worship. 

[3] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

What  I  know,  therefore,  about  his  early 
years  I  learned  chiefly  from  his  mother. 
He  was  not  of  a  reminiscent  habit  as  a  rule, 
and  his  recollections  of  childhood  were  not 
always  pleasant.  His  father  was  one  of 
the  most  upright  and  altogether  the  mild- 
est-tempered of  all  the  men  that  I  have 
met.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of  strong 
but  uncultivated  mind,  keen  wit,  incisive 
speech  and  arbitrary  will,  from  whom  her 
son  derived  many  of  his  own  characteristics, 
including  his  innate  bent  toward  pictorial 
expression.  In  her  that  inclination  never 
took  any  but  the  crudest  shape,  but 
she  had  beyond  all  peradventure  the  in- 
stinct which  under  more  propitious  circum- 
stances would  have  displayed  itself  more 
convincingly.  Perhaps  the  very  cramping 
of  it  in  her  was  the  cause  of  its  appearance 
at  so  preternaturally  early  an  age  in  him. 
She  more  than  once  told  me  that  he  began 
to  draw  as  soon  as  he  could  hold  a  pencil, 
and  that  from  his  twentieth  month  to 
provide  him  with  one  and  a  piece  of  blank 
paper  was  the  surest  means  of  quieting  his 

[4] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


most  turbulent  outbreaks.  Years  after- 
ward, not  long  before  our  marriage,  his 
first  schoolmistress  sent  me  a  spirited  draw- 
ing of  a  horse  which  she  said  he  had  made 
for  her  when  not  more  than  five  years  old. 

This  drawing  was  produced  in  one  of  the 
Albany  ward  schools,  and  it  pretty  accu- 
rately foreshadowed  all  that  he  was  to  ac- 
complish in  them  thereafter.  I  doubt  if  he 
ever  took  kindly  to  lessons  obviously  given. 
Even  in  painting,  his  sole  direct  tuition  was 
imparted  by  James  Hart  and  extended  over 
two  weeks  only.  What  he  needed,  what 
suited  him,  he  then  and  always  took  in,  so 
to  say,  through  his  pores,  absorbing  what 
he  required,  leaving  other  things  un- 
touched, and  wrestling  unaided  with  his  per- 
sonal problems.  Greatly  to  his  own  after 
regret,  his  ordinary  schooling  ended  when 
he  was  thirteen.  But  at  the  time  his  aver- 
sion to  school-books  and  school  routine  dove- 
tailed to  a  marvel  with  the  persuasion  of  his 
relatives  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  begin 
earning  his  own  livelihood.  He  once  told 
me  that  his  school-hours  had  been  largely 

[5] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


spent  in  looking  through  the  windows  at 
the  Greenbush  hills  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Hudson,  and  in  longing  for  the  time  to 
come  when  he  could  go  over  there  in  the 
horse-boat  with  paper  and  pencil  to  record 
a  nearer  view. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  only  for  school-books 
as  such  that  he  had  an  intimate  aversion. 
In  other  lines  all  was  fish  that  came  to  his 
net.  How  he  obtained  it  I  do  not  know, 
but  a  copy  of  Volney's  "  Ruins  "  which  he 
read  at  this  period  colored  his  opinions  in  a 
way  that  he  afterward  found  reason  to 
regret.  Rut  at  the  time  it  made  him  an 
irreverent,  amused,  and  precocious  critic  of 
the  talk  he  heard  at  Conference-time,  when 
itinerant  ministers  thronged  the  family 
board. 

Poetry  of  certain  kinds  attracted  him 
throughout  his  life,  and  verse  that  greatly 
pleased  him  would  stamp  itself  indelibly 
on  his  memory.  Once  in  a  great  while, 
almost  to  the  last,  I  could  persuade  him  to 
repeat  to  me  Keats's  "  Ode  on  a  Grecian 
Urn,"  with  a  lingering  enunciation  and  a 
[6] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

melancholy  charm  of  accent  which  a  few  of 
his  most  intimate  friends  may  likewise  re- 
call. I  especially  remember  one  night  in 
Villerville,when  we  were  alone  out-of-doors 
in  the  late  moonlight,  awaiting  in  vain  the 
advent  of  a  nightingale  said  to  have  been 
heard  in  the  neighborhood,  that  he  more 
than  compensated  me  for  its  absence  by 
reciting  the  whole  of  the  same  poet's  lines 
to  that  "  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees." 
Reciting,  I  say,  but  the  word  is  ill  chosen. 
It  was  rather  a  barely  audible  yet  perfectly 
distinct  breathing  out  of  the  ineffable  mel- 
ancholy and  remoteness  of  those  perfect 
lines. 

Homer  was  transferred  to  his  father's 
carpenter  shop  on  leaving  school ;  but  even 
that  most  patient  of  men  came  at  last 
to  the  reluctant  conclusion  that  the  long, 
slender  fingers  which  could  not  refrain 
from  ornamenting  smoothly  planed  boards 
with  irrelevant  trees  and  mountains  were  of 
no  use  at  all  in  handling  saws  and  chisels. 
A  shopkeeper  with  whom  he  was  next 
placed  as  clerk,  much  against  the  boy's  own 
[7] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


will,  soon  discharged  him  for  incorrigible 
—perhaps  premeditated— rudeness  to  cus- 
tomers. One  of  these,  who  was  a  young 
cleric  in  the  Episcopalian  Seminary  in 
Ninth  Avenue,  New  York  City,  when  he 
told  me  the  story,  described  in  words  too 
graphic  to  quote,  the  manner  in  which,  as 
a  child,  he  had  once  been  driven  out  of 
the  shop  and  all  memory  of  what  he  was 
sent  for  out  of  his  mind,  by  the  thunder- 
ous scowl  and  wrath-freighted  tone  and 
terms  in  which  Homer  inquired  what  he 
wanted. 

He  was  next  introduced  into  the  archi- 
tect's office  of  a  relative,  whence  he  was 
eliminated,  partly  because  his  cousin 
thought  the  inevitable  landscapes  that  dec- 
orated his  plans  totally  superfluous,  but 
also  on  account  of  Homer's  congenital  in- 
ability to  see  perpendicular  lines  distinctly. 
I  think  I  never  saw  him  draw  an  upright 
of  any  sort  without  first  laying  his  paper 
or  canvas  on  its  side.  When  the  Civil  War 
broke  out,  shortly  before  our  marriage,  and 
he  presented  himself  for  the  draft,  it  was 

[8] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


this  defect  of  vision  which  caused  the  exam- 
iners to  reject  him. 

Every  attempt  at  harnessing  him  to  a 
beaten  track  of  obvious  utility  and  present 
productiveness  having  terminated  disas- 
trously, from  the  paternal  point  of  view, 
E.  D.  Palmer,  the  Albany  sculptor,  finally 
succeeded  in  persuading  the  elder  Homer 
Martin  that  his  son's  talent  and  inclination 
for  art  were  too  marked  and  exclusive  to 
permit  of  his  success  in  any  other  pursuit. 
Thenceforward— he  was  perhaps  sixteen 
—he  was  left  free  to  follow  the  bent  of  his 
genius.  I  do  not  know  where  he  painted  at 
first;  perhaps  at  home.  Later  on,  he  had  a 
studio  in  the  old  Museum  Building,  at  the 
junction  of  State  Street  and  Broadway. 
James  Hart  had  previously  occupied  it,  and 
it  was  probably  there  that  for  a  fortnight 
he  acted  as  Homer's  instructor. 

There  were  other  painters  in  Albany  at 
the  time:  William  Hart,  George  Boughton, 
Edward  Gay,  perhaps  one  or  two  others, 
with  all  of  whom  he  was  intimate  and  whose 
studios  he  frequented.  Boughton  went 
[9] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

abroad  not  long  after,  and,  when  he  was  in 
France,  once  wrote  to  Launt  Thompson  in 
most  enthusiastic  terms  concerning  the 
landscapes  of  Corot,  whose  great  vogue 
had  hardly  yet  begun,  but  with  whose  work 
Boughton  was  at  once  enchanted.  And,  in 
describing  it,  he  remarked  that  "  if  Homer 
Martin  had  been  his  pupil  he  could  hardly 
paint  more  like  him."  It  was  not  until  long 
years  after  that  Thompson  had  the  grace  to 
repeat  the  observation  to  Homer,  and  when 
at  last  he  did  so,  the  only  reply  he  got  was : 
' '  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  years  ago, 
when  it  would  have  been  of  some  service 
to  me?"  For  Homer,  too,  was  one  of  the 
Corot  worshipers  from  the  first. 

It  was  in  the  Museum  studio  that  I  first 
saw  Homer  Martin.  It  was  not  until  long 
afterward  that  I  learned— and  not  from 
him— that  having  seen  me  in  the  street,  he 
deliberately  sought  acquaintance  with  my 
eldest  brother,  like  himself  a  lover  of  music 
and  a  frequenter  of  the  local  Philharmonic 
Society.  An  invitation  to  visit  the  studio 
and  bring  his  sisters  soon  followed.   To  the 

[10] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


end  of  his  days,  I  suppose,  Homer  had 
reticences  of  that  sort  with  me.  At  the 
time  I  speak  of  he  was  already  locally 
known  as  a  colorist  of  no  mean  capacity 
and  a  man  of  genius.  I  had  heard  his  name, 
but  only  in  connection  with  that  of  a  dear 
friend  and  schoolmate  of  my  own,  a  beau- 
tiful, golden-haired  little  creature,  with  a 
voice  as  delightful  as  her  person,  whom  he 
was  said  to  be  following  everywhere  she 
went.  They  never  met  until  after  our  mar- 
riage, which  preceded  her  own. 

I  went  one  afternoon  with  my  brother  to 
see  his  pictures  and  his  studio.  The  latter 
struck  me  as  the  most  untidy  room  I  had 
ever  entered.  I  remember  his  rushing  to 
throw  things  behind  a  large  screen.  I  was 
not  used  to  paintings.  Such  as  I  had  seen 
had  seemed  to  me  mere  daubs  to  which  any 
good  engraving  would  be  altogether  pref- 
erable. But  on  that  afternoon  there  was  a 
large  unfinished  landscape  on  the  easel, 
which  even  to  my  unpractised  eye  conveyed 
the  promise  of  beauty.  It  was  a  commis- 
sion, painted  for  a  Mr.  Thomas  of  Albany, 
[11] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


if  I  do  not  mistake.  There  were  two  great 
boulders  lifting  their  heads  out  of  a  shal- 
low foreground  brook,  and  one  day,  much 
later,  when  I  was  there,  he  painted  his  own 
initials  on  one  of  them  and  mine  on  the 
other,  but — as  was  always  his  habit  when  he 
remembered  to  sign  his  pictures  at  all — in 
tints  differing  so  slightly  from  that  of  the 
surface  on  which  he  inscribed  them  as  to  be 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  it. 

We  were  married  in  my  father's  house 
during  the  first  year  of  the  Civil  War,  on 
the  twenty-fifth  of  June,  1861,  and  went 
off  the  same  day  to  Twin  Lakes,  Connecti- 
cut. I  still  have  the  first  sketch  in  oils 
which  he  made  out-of-doors  that  season:  a 
barley-field,  meadow  land  in  the  middle 
distance,  gray-green  trees  beyond.  Two  or 
three  brown  boulders,  others  merely  pen- 
ciled in,  lie  on  the  left  of  the  foreground. 
The  delicate  heads  of  grain  are  swaying  in 
a  light  breeze.  Perhaps  he  did  not  do  much 
in  the  way  of  visible  work  that  summer.  At 
all  events,  I  do  not  now  recall  any.  But  in 
some  subsequent  winter  he  embodied  his 

[12] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


recollections  of  the  place  and  time  in  a  de- 
lightful landscape.  All  his  life  long,  I  think, 
his  results  were  arrived  at  more  by  means  of 
a  slow,  only  half  deliberate  absorption  when 
out-of-doors  than  by  a  wilful  effort  to  re- 
cord them  at  the  time.  Yet  the  one  excep- 
tion to  that  statement  which  I  distinctly 
recall  is  a  very  great  one:  the  Westchester 
Hills,  which  is  thought  by  many  to  be  his 
most  perfect  landscape.  It  was  painted 
entirely  en  plein  air,  and  many  a  day  I  sat 
close  by,  reading  aloud  or  knitting  while  it 
was  in  progress.  He  never  got  so  much  as 
an  offer  for  it,  nor  was  it  until  more  than 
two  years  after  his  death  that  a  purchaser 
was  found  sufficiently  venturesome  to  end 
a  long  hesitation  by  paying  $1,000  to  obtain 
it.  He  was  presently  rewarded  for  his 
temerity,  I  am  happy  to  say,  for  when  he 
put  it  up  at  auction  a  few  months  later, 
it  brought  him  $4,750.  The  second  pur- 
chaser was  still  more  fortunate,  reselling  it 
for  $5,300. 

Neither  of  us  ever  revisited  Twin  Lakes. 
Later  in  the  season  we  went  to  the  farm- 

[13] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


house  of  Mr.  Thaddeus  Dewey,  near  Fort 
Ann,  N.  Y.,  where  we  remained  until  late 
in  the  autumn. 

My  husband  retained  his  Albany  studio 
until  the  winter  of  1862-63,  when  he  went 
to  New  York  and  for  some  months  painted 
in  the  studio  of  Mr.  James  Smillie.  It 
could  hardly  have  been  earlier  than  the  win- 
ter of  1864-65  that  after  many  efforts  he 
succeeded  in  finding  an  empty  studio  in  the 
Tenth  Street  Studio  Building— a  little, 
skylighted  room  on  the  top  corridor  which 
he  occupied  continuously  until  he  resigned 
it  before  sailing  for  England  the  second 
time  in  the  fall  of  1881.  His  forty-fifth 
birthday  came  while  he  was  on  shipboard. 
I  followed  him  to  London  in  the  succeeding 
June. 

His  nearest  neighbors  in  the  Studio 
Building  for  many  years  were  Sanford  R. 
Gifford,  Richard  Hubbard,  C.  C.  Griswold, 
and  J.  G.  Brown.  Jervis  McEntee  and  his 
charming  wife  were  on  the  corridor  next 
below;  so  was  Julian  Scott.  Eastman 

[14] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


Johnson  and  Launt  Thompson  were  on  the 
ground  floor.  I  think  that  John  La  Farge 
must  have  come  a  little  later.  At  any  rate, 
I  do  not  remember  him  before  the  winter 
of  1867-68.  Failing,  as  often  happened,  to 
find  my  husband  in  his  own  studio,  I  went 
one  day  to  that  of  Mr.  La  Farge  on  the 
same  corridor  in  search  of  him.  He  was 
not  there  either,  but  I  still  retain  a  very 
distinct  recollection  of  Mr.  La  Farge,  face 
and  characteristic  attitude  of  doubtful  wel- 
come for  intruders  quickly  changing  as  he 
divined  my  identity,  asked  me  to  enter,  and 
so  began  a  friendship  still  unbroken.  Of 
course,  Homer  had  talked  a  good  deal  to 
me  about  him.  Certain  questions  which  had 
been  pressing  on  my  mind  with  increasing 
persistence  ever  since  my  father's  death  in 
1866,  very  speedily  found  expression  in  a 
sort  of  personal  catechism  concerning  his 
hereditary  faith  which  he,  perhaps,  may 
likewise  recall. 

We  were  fairly  prosperous  in  those  early 
years,  or  might  have  been  if  we  had  been 
constituted  differently.    "There  is  much 

[15] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

virtue  in  If."  Homer's  landscapes  were 
often  commissioned,  and  seldom  remained 
long  on  his  easel  in  any  case  after  they  were 
finished.  But  it  was  never  possible  to  count 
on  any  definite  term  as  that  of  their  prob- 
able completion.  He  was  a  man  of  many 
moods,  and  that  one  of  them  in  which  he 
could  paint  and  be  satisfied  after  a  fashion 
with  what  he  painted,  was  the  most  irreg- 
ular and  uncertain  of  them  all.  He  did  not 
possess  his  genius  but  was  possessed  by  it. 
His  fallow  periods  were  many.  When  they 
passed  away,  the  first  sign  that  seeds  had 
begun  to  sprout  again  was  often  the  entire 
scraping  out  of  a  landscape  that  to  others 
had  seemed  to  need  only  the  final  touches. 
I  asked  him  once  in  later  years,  at  a  time 
when  there  was  every  need  for  exertion 
were  it  possible,  why  he  did  not  paint.  It 
was  in  1881.  "  I  cannot  paint,"  said  he. 
"  I  do  not  know  where  the  impulse  comes 
from,  nor  why  it  stays  away.  All  I  know 
is  that  when  it  comes  I  can  do  nothing  else 
but  paint;  when  it  goes  I  can  do  nothing 
but  dawdle."  That  was  absolutely  true.  It 
was  also  very  inconvenient. 

[16] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

But  in  that  earlier  period  with  which  I 
am  still  concerned,  his  pictures  for  years 
brought  him  an  income  which  averaged  be- 
tween two  and  three  thousand  dollars, 
sometimes  more  than  that.  It  was  war-time 
and  after.  Prices  were  high  for  every- 
thing. Money  came  at  irregular  intervals, 
often  so  prolonged  that,  when  it  did  come,  it 
had  to  be  chiefly  employed  in  the  process  he 
once  described  as  "  mopping  up  debts;  "  a 
kind  of  industry  to  which  he  found  me 
persistently  addicted.  Neither  of  us  took 
as  much  thought  for  the  morrow  as  perhaps 
we  might  have  done  had  not  the  morrows 
themselves  seemed  so  uncertain  a  quantity. 
Life  used  to  present  itself  to  me  at  that 
time  as  a  narrow  path  leading  between 
precipices,  across  turbulent  brooks,  over 
stones  that  were  slippery  as  well  as  sharp, 
and  whose  end  was  nowhere  in  sight.  In 
fact,  it  never  did  become  visible  until,  turn- 
ing at  some  unexpected  angle,  our  cul-de- 
sac  would  prove  to  have  had  a  hidden  outlet 
after  all.  Perhaps  this  was  why  our  fre- 
quently recurring  difficulties  troubled  us 
more  and  taught  us  less  than  they  might 
[17] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


have  done  under  different  circumstances. 
In  the  complex  of  life  we  ourselves  were 
circumstances.  Once,  in  later  years,  he 
casually  remarked  that  I  had  never  given 
him  a  chance  to  get  tired  of  me,  because 
he  never  knew  what  I  would  do  next.  Can 
any  one  give  what  one  has  not  got? 

Meantime,  we  found  life  entertaining  as 
well  as  perplexing  and  difficult.  Our  little 
boys  were  healthy,  intelligent  and  good- 
tempered.  Homer's  work,  when  he  could 
once  settle  down  to  it,  was  always  able  to 
divert  his  mind  from  every  other  preoccu- 
pation. I  had  been  writing  book  reviews 
occasionally  ever  since  the  early  spring  of 
1861  for  the  "  Leader,"  to  which  paper  an 
article  of  mine  concerning  Mrs.  Rebecca 
Harding  Davis's  first  novel  had  been  sent 
under  a  pseudonym  by  the  brother  I  have 
already  referred  to,  who  was  a  friend  of 
that  eccentric  genius,  Henry  Clapp.  Later 
on,  I  wrote  once  in  a  while  for  the  "  Round 
Table,"  and,  after  some  date  in  1866,  when 
Auerbach's  "  On  the  Heights "  was  sent 
me  from  the  "  Nation  "  editorial  rooms  for 

[18] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

review,  pretty  steadily  for  that  periodical. 
Our  friends  were  interesting  to  both  of  us. 
If  Homer  ever  "talked  shop,"  at  least  I 
never  heard  him,  and  the  men  whose  com- 
pany he  instinctively  sought  were  never 
painters;  or,  since  I  must  make  an  excep- 
tion in  the  case  of  John  La  Farge,  they 
were  never  merely  that.  He  had  a  great 
capacity  for  love,  and  the  two  men  whom 
he  loved  best  were  critics  in  the  large  sense : 
John  Richard  Dennett,  from  the  first  time 
they  met  until  his  untimely  death  in  1874; 
and  William  C.  Brownell  from  that  period, 
or  perhaps  before  it,  until  the  end. 

Painting  was  his  own  sole  means  of  ade- 
quate expression.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to 
say  that.  I  may  not  be  an  adequate  judge, 
and  certainly  I  have  heard  great  things 
about  his  reputation  as  a  talker  at  the 
Century  Club.  But  to  me,  from  first  to 
last,  he  never  talked  about  impersonal  sub- 
jects— perhaps  because  he  could  not  con- 
sider anything  that  affected  me  in  a  purely 
impersonal  light.  I  always  read  aloud  to 
him  a  great  deal,  but  the  books  and  topics 
[19] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


which  interested  me  most  after  1870  never 
interested  him  at  all.  Until  then  we  had 
both  been  turning  our  intellectual  search- 
lights in  every  conceivable  intellectual 
direction.  At  that  period  mine  steadied  on 
its  proper  centre  and  veered  no  more.  But 
to  the  very  end  I  continued  to  read  to  him 
whatever  he  desired  to  hear. 

Nevertheless,  even  though  he  was  too 
many-sided  not  to  find  issue  in  more  than 
one  direction,  his  pictures  are  the  only  per- 
manent result  of  his  imperative  need  for 
self-expression.  He  always  detested  what 
he  called  literary  pictures — pictures,  that 
is,  that  told  or  tried  to  tell  a  story.  And 
yet  I  think  it  true  to  say  that  if  he  is  su- 
preme as  a  colorist  it  is  largely  because 
color  was  to  him  an  instrument,  not  an 
end.  He  used  it  as  a  poet  uses  words.  He 
made  it  reflect  not  so  much  what  is  obvious 
in  nature  as  that  duplex  image  into  which 
external  nature  fused  itself  with  him,  who 
was  also  a  part  of  nature.  To  me,  this  is 
what  individualizes  his  pictures.  I  think  it 
impossible  to  mistake  them.   When  he  was 

[20] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

in  England  the  second  time,  I  went  to  the 
art  rooms  of  Mr.  Lanthier,  whom  I  had 
authorized  to  obtain  from  William  Schaus 
a  landscape  I  had  never  seen,  and  which 
had  been  for  some  months  tucked  away  in 
an  upper  room  inaccessible  to  visitors.  I, 
at  least,  had  been  refused  a  sight  of  it  when 
I  went  to  the  Schaus  gallery  for  that  pur- 
pose. The  attendant  told  me  they  did  not 
exhibit  American  pictures.  Lanthier  ob- 
tained possession  of  it,  and  when  I  saw  it 
I  remarked  that,  as  usual,  it  was  unsigned. 
"  Unsigned!  "  protested  he.  "  It  is  signed 
from  the  top  of  the  canvas  to  the  bottom. 
No  one  in  the  world  could  have  painted  it 
but  Homer  Martin."  He  sold  it  a  few 
days  later  to  Mr.  Sidney  de  Kay,  whose 
family,  I  believe,  still  possesses  it. 

Homer  went  abroad  for  the  first  time  in 
1876,  in  company  with  the  late  Dr.  Jacob 
S.  Mosher,  an  Albany  friend  of  both  of  us 
since  before  our  marriage,  and  at  that 
period  quarantine  physician  of  the  port  of 
New  York.  They  went  to  France  and  Hol- 
land, perhaps  to  Belgium,  as  well  as  to  Eng- 

[21] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


land.  How  far  they  penetrated  into  France 
I  do  not  remember,  but  I  do  recall— though 
when  Mr.  Charles  de  Kay  wrote  to  ask  the 
question  some  three  years  since  I  had  for- 
gotten—that they  visited  Barbizon  and 
probably  some  of  the  painters  whose  classic 
ground  it  was,  and  that  Homer  made  some 
pencilings  both  there  and  at  Saint-Cloud. 
They  were  absent  for  some  considerable 
time,  and  it  was  at  this  period  that  he  made 
acquaintance  with  the  late  James  McNeill 
Whistler. 

He  sailed  for  England  the  second  time  in 
October,  1881,  and  I  joined  him  in  London 
early  in  the  next  July.  On  the  "  glorious 
Fourth  "  we  visited  Mr.  Whistler's  studio, 
where  Homer  had  occasionally  painted.  I 
think  it  must  have  been  there  that  he 
painted,  late  in  the  previous  autumn,  a  de- 
lightful Newport  landscape  which  was 
bought  at  the  Artist  Fund  sale  of  that  sea- 
son by  Mr.  Lanthier  for  Mr.  Charles  de 
Kay.  Whistler's  beautiful  portrait  of  his 
mother— which  I  afterward  saw  in  Paris 
at  the  Salon— was  on  the  easel,  and  it  is 

[22] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

the  only  one  of  his  pictures  which  I  dis- 
tinctly recollect.  There  were  some  "  noc- 
turnes "  on  the  walls,  and  they  were  doubt- 
less worth  remembering.  But  I  never  went 
there  again,  and  on  this  occasion  my 
attention  was  riveted  by  the  artist  and  his 
surroundings,  alike  spectacular  and  bizarre, 
the  man  grotesque  as  a  caricature  in  atti- 
tude and  aspect,  the  rooms  all  pale  blue  and 
lemon-yellow,  even  to  the  many  vases  and 
the  flowers  therein  contained.  He  said  a 
good  many  things,  not  one  of  which  was  I 
able  to  recall,  so  lost  was  I  in  contemplation 
of  the  general  oddity  of  him  and  his  chosen 
environment.  "  What  did  you  think  of 
him? "  asked  Homer  after  we  came  away. 
"  Why  didn't  you  talk?  You  never  said  a 
thing."  "  I  was  afraid  to  open  my  lips," 
said  I,  "  lest  I  should  involuntarily  tell  him 
to  shake  that  feather  out  of  his  hair.  He 
must  have  had  his  head  buried  in  a  pillow 
before  we  went  in."  "  I  wish  you  had!" 
said  he  with  a  laugh.  "  That  is  Jimmy's 
feather.  He  delights  in  having  it  noticed." 
I  had  observed  that  he  bowed  profoundly 

[23] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


on  our  introduction  and  so  brought  it  into 
staring  evidence;  but  I  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve, even  on  testimony,  that  the  premed- 
itated effect  was  produced  by  a  quite  un- 
premeditated lock  of  gray  hair. 

The  especial  occasion  for  this  second 
visit  to  England  was  the  making  of  some 
drawings  illustrative  of  places  mentioned 
in  the  novels  of  Thackeray  and  George 
Eliot.  He  had  been  there  for  some  months 
and  they  were  hardly  more  than  begun,  but 
after  I  came  he  worked  at  them  pretty 
steadily.  It  was  an  undertaking  which  he 
did  not  at  all  enjoy,  but  which  circum- 
stances had  made  imperative.  When  he 
first  told  me  of  it  in  the  previous  summer, 
he  made  it  evident  that  he  thought  such  a 
commission  derogatory  to  his  dignity  as  a 
painter.  Whether  it  was  that  his  pictures 
were  selling  less  readily,  or  because  the 
painting  mood  came  with  less  imperative 
frequency,  I  do  not  know,  but  he  was 
unusually  despondent.  The  idea  of  the 
voyage  was  pleasant  in  itself.  One  of 
his  never  fulfilled  longings  was  to  cross 

[24] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


the  ocean  in  a  sailing  vessel.  His  Artist 
Fund  picture  was  nearly  due  and  could 
be  painted  on  the  other  side;  he  thought 
the  price  of  the  drawings  would  pay  all 
his  other  expenses.  And  when  an  unex- 
pected stroke  of  good  fortune  made  it 
possible  for  me  to  join  him,  his  sky  cleared 
up.  I  do  not  remember  whether  the  Eng- 
lish drawings  were  successful;  I  do  know 
that  they  were  tardy  in  reaching  the  New 
York  office  of  The  Century  Company,  for 
whose  magazine  they  had  been  destined, 
and  that  when,  in  the  ensuing  year,  he  sent 
the  same  publishers  a  set  of  Villerville 
drawings,  accompanied  by  a  sketch  he  had 
suggested  my  writing  about  that  delightful 
haunt  of  painters,  Mr.  Gilder  wrote  me, 
after  some  delay,  that  they  had  been  much 
interested  in  my  article,  but  that  their  art 
department  was  not  satisfied  with  the  draw- 
ings. It  was  subsequently  published  in  the 
"  Catholic  World,"  unaccompanied  by  the 
illustrations,  that  magazine  not  then  having 
begun  to  produce  any. 

In  October  of  that  year,  the  completion 

[25] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


of  the  last  drawing  coincided  with  the  ar- 
rival in  London  of  an  old  New  York  friend, 
the  late  Mr.  Bryant  Godwin,  and  an  invita- 
tion to  spend  some  weeks  in  Normandy  with 
the  family  of  another,  W.  J.  Hennessy,  the 
well-known  artist  and  illustrator.  There 
was  no  further  reason  for  delay  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  three  of  us  crossed  the  Chan- 
nel one  night  by  the  Southampton  boat.  I 
have  never  forgotten  my  first  sight  of  the 
French  shore  next  morning.  "  I  don't 
wonder  now  at  Rousseau's  color,"  I  said  to 
Homer;  "how  could  he  help  it?" 

It  had  been  our  intention  to  return  to 
New  York  after  a  brief  visit  with  the  Hen- 
nessys,  who  had  been  living  for  years  in  a 
picturesque  and  pleasant  way  at  Pennede- 
pie,  an  agricultural  hamlet  on  the  road  be- 
tween Honfleur  and  Trouville,  where  they 
occupied  a  roomy  and  quaintly  furnished 
old  manor  just  opposite  the  village  church. 
But  we  found  the  place,  the  people,  and  the 
neighboring  views  alike  delightful,  and 
when  news  arrived,  early  in  our  stay,  of  a 
considerable  sum  to  his  credit  which  had 
[26] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


been  lying  for  some  months  uncalled  for  at 
the  American  Exchange,  London,  where  it 
had  been  sent  to  his  first  address  by  Mr. 
James  Stillman,  Homer  decided  on  re- 
maining in  Normandy.  To  have  returned 
to  New  York  just  then  would  have  been  a 
distinct  loss  to  both  of  us  in  many  ways. 
I  look  back  on  the  time  we  spent  in  Viller- 
ville  as  the  most  tranquil  and  satisfactory 
period  of  our  life  together. 

That  little  fishing  village,  dominated  by 
the  tower  of  a  church  erected  when  the  elev- 
enth century  was  young,  in  thanksgiving 
because  the  foreboded  end  of  the  world  had 
not  come  in  the  year  1000,  lies  about  mid- 
way between  Honfleur  and  Trouville,  at  an 
easy  walk  from  Pennedepie.  Equidistant 
from  either  place  stands  the  ivy-grown 
church  of  Criqueboeuf,  beloved  of  artists, 
and  made  by  Homer  the  theme  of  one  of  his 
best  pictures.  In  the  same  grassy  enclosure 
on  the  right  of  the  pond  into  which  this  old 
church  dips  its  foot,  he  found  two  more 
delightful  subjects.  One  of  them  is  em- 
bodied on  one  of  his  last  canvases,  the 
[27] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

"  Normandy  Farm,"  now  owned,  I  believe, 
by  Mr.  Bloomingdale  of  New  York.  It 
was  bought  in  the  first  place  by  Mr.  W.  T. 
Evans,  a  week  or  so  before  my  husband's 
death.  The  other,  a  view  of  a  deserted 
manor,  showing  dimly  through  a  veil  of 
ghostly  trees,  which  Mrs.  Hennessy  de- 
clared ought  to  be  called  "  The  Haunted 
House,"  was  finished  in  New  York  after 
his  return  for  an  early  friend,  Dr.  D.  M. 
Stimson,  to  whom  for  many  years  he  had 
been  greatly  attached.  I  think  it  was  ex- 
hibited at  the  Chicago  World's  Fair. 

Villerville  had  for  years  been  thronged 
in  summer  and  fall  by  painters,  French, 
English,  and  American;  perhaps  it  is  so 
still.  Guillemet  had  been  there  for  twenty 
consecutive  seasons ;  Duez  had  built  himself 
a  house  and  studio  with  a  Norman  tower. 
Stanley  Reinhart  came  both  summers  while 
we  were  there,  with  that  most  sweet  wife  of 
his  and  their  pretty  little  children.  The 
Forbes -Robertsons  had  a  little  villa  for  a 
while,— the  parents,  that  is,  and  Miss 
Frances,  then  a  girl  of  sixteen;  and  the 

[28] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

actor  son  must  have  spent  some  consider- 
able part  of  his  vacation  with  them,  for 
I  recall  a  rather  animated  discussion  we 
had  one  night,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
estacade  in  the  moonlight,  when  he  de- 
claimed in  so  ardent  a  fashion  about  the 
intrinsic  and  extrinsic  glories  of  England, 
that  a  mere  sense  of  equilibrium  made  the 
interjection  of  a  "  What  about  Ireland? 
What  about  India?  "  seem  to  me  inevitable. 
"  Oh!  unjust,  if  you  insist,"  said  he.  "  But 
I  am  an  Englishman— Scotch  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  suppose.  And  you  must  admit 
that  a  man  is  bound  to  stand  up  for  his 
country,  right  or  wrong."  It  is  a  sentiment 
I  have  never  been  able  to  understand. 
Some  of  us,  I  suppose,  are  born  cosmopol- 
itans, or  else  look  forward  to  "an  abiding 
city  wherein  dwelleth  justice,"  since  not 
even  patriotism  can  insist  that  it  has  a  local 
abiding  place  here. 

And  that  reminds  me  of  another  incident 
belonging  to  the  winter  time,  when,  as  there 
was  not  an  English-speaking  soul  in  the 
entire  neighborhood  except  ourselves,  our 
[29] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

landlord  one  day  brought  me  in  despair  a 
lady  whose  vernacular  it  was,  accompanied 
by  a  French  bonne  and  two  little  children 
as  apple-faced  and  ruddy  as  Polly  Too- 
dles'  babies.  She  explained  that  she  was  the 
wife  of  a  major  in  the  English  army,  and 
had  but  just  returned  with  him  from  India; 
also,  that  while  there  she  had  read  such  a 
glowing  description  of  the  beauties  of  Vil- 
lerville  in  a  copy  of  "  The  Queen,"  that 
she  had  determined  to  examine  them  for 
herself.  I  did  what  I  could  for  her  in  the 
way  of  finding  a  furnished  apartment,  and 
before  they  had  removed  to  it,  went  one 
morning  to  return  her  call  at  one  of  the 
hotels.  I  found  her  and  the  major  at  a 
late  breakfast,  with  the  English  newspa- 
pers lying  about.  The  period  antedated 
Mr.  Joseph  Chamberlain's  change  of  his 
political  coat,  the  Irish  question  was  well  to 
the  front,  and  my  new  acquaintances  spoke 
English  with  one  of  the  most  sonorous 
brogues  that  had  ever  greeted  my  ear. 
Here  was  a  case  in  which  my  own  sympa- 
thies and  the  presumable  ones  of  my  audi- 
[so] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


ence  seemed  naturally  to  invite  a  moderate 
expression  of  views  on  a  current  topic. 
Dead  silence  fell  for  a  moment  after  I  had 
stopped  speaking.  Then  the  major  said 
with  an  accent  that  positively  projected: 
"  Excuse  me,  but  I  am  English:  that  is  to 
say,  I  am  Irish,  but  of  the  landlord  class! " 
It  was  simply  a  matter  of  the  point  of  view. 

It  was  this  question  of  the  seasons,  I 
think,  which  chiefly  necessitated  my  learn- 
ing the  language  which  was  afterward  of  so 
much  use  to  both  of  us  up  to  the  very  end. 
It  also  necessitated  a  more  incessant  com- 
panionship than  at  any  period  was  ever  pos- 
sible in  the  city  of  the  Century  Club.  It  was 
easy  to  pick  up  French  enough  to  carry  on 
such  intercourse  as  was  absolutely  necessary 
with  the  people  about  us,  but  my  serious 
study  of  it  was  undertaken  in  the  first 
place  in  order  that  I  might  continue  to 
read  aloud  to  Homer  in  the  evenings 
after  the  available  supply  of  English  nov- 
els and  periodicals  had  been  exhausted.  I 
began  with  About's  "  Roi  des  Montagnes," 
my  method  being  to  read  a  sentence  to 

[31] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

accustom  his  ear  and  my  tongue  to  the  un- 
familiar sounds,  and  forthwith  to  translate 
it  literally.  Of  course,  I  had  teachers,  one 
of  whom  had  taught  this,  her  native  lan- 
guage, in  a  London  private  school,  while 
a  second  was  at  the  time  professor  of  Eng- 
lish in  the  College  of  Honfleur.  Curious 
English  it  must  have  been!  But  he  was 
praiseworthily  anxious  to  increase  his  own 
knowledge  as  well  as  mine.  But  the  best 
one  of  the  three  was  a  delightful  woman, 
Mademoiselle  Lemonnier,  the  village  post- 
mistress, who  did  not  know  a  word  of 
English  although  her  mother  had  been  an 
Englishwoman.  She  was  very  well  read 
and  intelligent  as  well  as  companionable 
and  kindly.  I  had  applied  to  her,  when  my 
first  instructress  found  it  impossible  to 
come  any  longer,  to  find  me  another.  We 
already  knew  each  other  pretty  well,  and 
when  she  said,  "  If  you  will  let  me  teach 
you  for  love,  I  will  do  it  myself,  but  if  you 
insist  on  paying,  I  will  inquire  for  some  one 
else,"  it  was  simply  a  new  version  of  Hob- 
son's  choice.    I  could  not  have  done  better 

[32] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


in  any  case.  When  Homer  went  abroad 
for  the  last  time,  he  made  a  point  of  cross- 
ing the  Channel  to  visit  Mademoiselle 
Lemonnier.  Slender  as  were  their  means 
of  communication,  they  had  managed  to 
understand  and  sympathize  with  each  other 
very  completely,  a  strong  sense  of  humor 
on  either  side  helping  greatly  to  that  con- 
summation. 

We  lived  in  Villerville  for  nineteen 
months.  An  excellent  studio  with  two  ad- 
jacent rooms  had  been  arranged  for  us 
before  our  arrival,  and  we  lunched  and 
dined  at  Madame  Cornu's  hotel,  providing 
our  breakfast  in  our  own  quarters.  A 
quaint  old  English  priest  whom  I  knew  in 
London,  and  who  had  to  the  full  the  hered- 
itary prejudice  against  "  Johnny  Cra- 
paud,"  had  warned  me  not  merely  of  what 
he  believed  to  be  the  prevalent  Jansenism 
which  would  prevent  so  frequent  an  ap- 
proach to  the  sacraments  as  I  had  been 
accustomed  to,  but  against  the  cheating,  the 
conscienceless  thievery  to  which  he  assured 
me  we  would  be  subjected  on  all  sides.   "  I 

[33] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

would  not  spend  a  farthing  in  France!" 
said  he.    Well,  in  Paris,  perhaps,  though 
I  had  no  personal  experience  of  it  even 
there.    But  in  Villerville,  and  afterward 
in  Honfleur,  there  was  absolutely  no  ex- 
ception to  the  perfect  cordiality,  absolute 
trust,  and  gentle  politeness  which  greeted 
us  on  all  sides.   I  have  never  met  anything 
like  it  elsewhere  save  in  the  parish  of  the 
Paulist  Fathers  in  New  York.    I  speak 
from  what  may  be  called  exhaustive  know- 
ledge, since  there  was  a  period,  before  we 
left  the  former  place,  when  we  were  out  of 
money  for  so  long  that  when  at  last  we 
were  able  to  settle  Madame  Cornu's  bill 
it  amounted  to  the  considerable  sum  of  two 
thousand  francs.    I  had  asked  her  some 
time  previously  if  she  were  not  in  need  of 
it,  but  only  to  receive  the  smiling  answer: 
"  When  Madame  pleases.   We  are  neither 
of  us  robbers."    So  in  Honfleur,  where, 
after  we  had  been  domiciled  for  a  month  or 
so,  and  had  found  our  fresh  bread  and  rolls 
on  the  kitchen-window  ledge  every  morn- 
ing, I  went  to  the  baker  to  inquire  for  and 

[34] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


settle  his  account.  "  But,  Madame,"  ob- 
jected the  fresh-cheeked  young  woman  in 
charge,  "  we  have  kept  no  account.  Does 
not  Madame  know  how  much  it  is  herself?  " 
"  Why,  yes,"  said  I ;  "  you  have  brought  so 
much  for  so  many  days  at  such  a  price." 
"  Cest  $a"  she  smiled.  "  Whatever  Ma- 
dame says."  And  this,  again,  reminds  me 
of  Madame  Cornu  and  her  remarkable 
bill.  There  had  been  a  price  set  in  the  first 
place  of  so  much  a  day  for  our  two  meals, 
which  were  always  abundant  and  well- 
cooked.  I  knew  the  dates  and  was  ready 
with  the  exact  sum.  But  when  my  tally 
was  placed  beside  her  bill  there  was  a  dis- 
crepancy arising  from  the  fact  that  Homer 
would  sometimes  be  absent  from  the  mid- 
day meal  by  reason  of  a  sketching  excur- 
sion or  something  of  the  sort,  and  she  was 
never  notified  beforehand.  Yet  on  every 
such  occasion  a  deduction  had  been  scru- 
pulously made.  Such  an  experience  never 
befell  us  elsewhere. 

To  Homer  also  Villerville  was  as  de- 
lightful as  any  place  could  be  while  lacking 

[35] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

that  social  intercourse  with  men  of  brains 
and  cultivation  which  was  always  his  chief 
pleasure  and  relaxation.  Years  afterward, 
Mr.  Brownell  said  one  evening  when  we 
were  all  dining  together  in  those  pleasant 
apartments  of  theirs  on  Fifty-sixth  Street, 
that  the  three  weeks  which  he  and  his  wife 
had  spent  there  with  us  seemed  to  him  more 
like  his  idea  of  heaven  than  anything  he 
remembered.  And  he  asked  me  whether  I 
would  not  like  to  live  it  all  over  again.  In 
retrospect,  yes;  as  I  have  just  been  prov- 
ing. But,  were  it  possible  in  reality?  O 
no!  Never  have  I  seen  a  day  that  has 
tempted  me  to  say  to  it:  "  Stay,  thou  art 
fair!" 

Our  sojourn  in  Villerville  was  a  partic- 
ularly important  one  for  both  of  us,  but  in 
different  ways.  For  him  it  was  a  period  of 
absorption  rather  than  of  production,  while, 
on  that  very  account,  exactly  the  reverse 
process  went  on  in  me.  I  have  already  said 
it  was  at  his  suggestion  that  I  accompanied 
his  Villerville  drawings  with  an  article 
which,  Mr.  Brownell  afterward  wrote  me, 
[36] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

was  like  "  a  Martin  landscape  put  into 
words."  Homer  perhaps  thought  so  him- 
self, for  he  had  already  said:  "  I  see  that 
you  can  paint  with  words.  I  wonder  if  you 
can  set  people  in  action.  Why  not  try?  " 
Whereupon  I  made  a  character  sketch 
which  Mr.  Alden,  of  "  Harper's  Maga- 
zine," declined  because  "  it  was  too 
painful,"  but  which  the  then  editor  of 
"  Lippincott's "— I  think  his  name  was 
Kirk— found  too  short,  and  wrote  me  that 
if  I  would  lengthen  it  out  so  that  it  should 
bear  less  resemblance  to  a  truncated  cone, 
he  would  be  glad  to  avail  himself  of  it. 
Whereupon  I  recalled  it,  fished  up  my  hero- 
ine out  of  an  earthquake  on  the  island  of 
Capri  which  I  had  allowed  to  swallow  her, 
but  whom  I  now  unearthed,  none  the  worse 
except  in  the  matter  of  a  broken  wrist,— I 
think  it  was  a  wrist, — and  in  a  month  or  so 
received  a  very  fair-sized  check  for  the  tale 
of  her  experiences. 

The  same  sort  of  exterior  pressure,  not 
any  interior  need  of  expression,  was  what 
led  to  the  production  of  a  tale  which  ran 
[37] 


HOMER  MARTIN 


for  eighteen  months  as  a  serial  in  the 
"Catholic  World"  under  the  title  of 
"  Katharine,"  and  during  that  period  pro- 
vided for  our  necessary  expenditures. 
Henry  Holt  republished  it  with  a  new 
name  which  he  himself  suggested.  I  liked 
the  first  one  better,  but  it  made  too  little 
difference  to  me  to  make  it  worth  while  to 
adhere  to  my  own  views.  Mr.  Kirk,  by  the 
way,  had  also  renamed  my  sketch:  that 
seems  to  be  a  privilege  with  literary  spon- 
sors, the  literary  parent  not  being  present. 
Almost  an  entire  chapter  was  also  elimi- 
nated from  the  book,  because  the  reader, 
whose  name  I  never  knew,  objected  to  it 
on  the  ground  that  it  showed  too  plainly 
that  "  Mrs.  Martin  really  believed  "  that  a 
certain  tenet  of  her  faith  was  absolutely 
true. 

I  began  a  second  story  on  the  heels  of 
this  one,  but  when  it  had  run  to  some  thirty 
thousand  words,  Homer  objected  to  it  as 
certain  to  split  upon  the  same  dogmatic 
rock  as  its  predecessor,  and  I  laid  it  aside 
for  a  third  one  which  attained  the  same 

[38] 


A  REMINISCENCE 


proportions  and  pleased  every  one  who  then 
or  thereafter  read  it  better  than  either  of 
its  predecessors.  But  it  had  the  misfortune 
of  not  specially  interesting  me;  and  yet 
there  was  a  baby  in  it  with  the  second  sight, 
who  bade  fair  to  develop  into  something 
"  mystic,  wonderful,"  in  course  of  time,  if 
not  interfered  with.  Meantime,  the  im- 
perative need  for  production  on  my  part 
having  ended,  I  put  the  unfinished  manu- 
script in  the  fire  some  three  years  ago.  The 
second  one  I  completed  after  our  return 
to  New  York,  and  it  was  published  under 
the  title  of  "  John  Van  Alstyne's  Factory," 
in  the  "  Catholic  World."  . 

To  Homer  our  life  in  France  was  chiefly 
seed-time.  There  germinated  his  "Low 
Tide  atVillerville,"the"Honfleur  Lights," 
the  "Criquebceuf  Church,"  the  "Nor- 
mandy Trees,"  the  "  Normandy  Farm," 
the  "  Sun  Worshipers,"  and  the  landscape 
known  in  the  Metropolitan  Gallery  of 
New  York,  where  it  now  hangs,  as  a 
"  View  on  the  Seine,"— which,  in  strict- 
ness, it  is  not, — but  for  which  his  own 
[39] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

title  was  "  The  Harp  of  the  Winds." 
I  had  asked  him  what  he  meant  to  call 
it,  and,  with  his  characteristic  aversion 
to  putting  his  deeper  sentiments  into 
words,  he  answered  that  he  supposed  it 
would  seem  too  sentimental  to  call  it  by  the 
name  I  have  just  given,  but  that  was  what 
it  meant  to  him,  for  he  had  been  thinking 
of  music  all  the  while  he  was  painting  it. 
And  this  reminds  me  of  a  commission  given 
him  by  a  music-lover  among  his  friends 
during  our  early  days  in  New  York  to 
"  paint  a  Beethoven  symphony "  for  him. 
He  did  it,  too,  and  to  the  utmost  satisfac- 
tion of  its  possessor. 

He  used  to  carry  about  with  him  in  those 
days  a  pocket  sketch-book  in  which  he  noted 
his  impressions  in  water-color.  Mr.  Brown- 
ell  must  remember  it,  and  so,  I  think,  must 
Mr.  Russell  Sturgis,  for,  being  at  our  rooms 
during  my  husband's  last  sojourn  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  when  he  was 
known  to  be  afflicted  with  an  incurable  mal- 
ady, he  said  to  me  that  if  Homer's  things 
were  ever  put  up  for  sale,  he  would  like  to 

[40] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

become  the  purchaser  of  this  book.  My 
husband  never  got  over  his  chagrin  when 
it  became  evident  that  it  must  have  fallen 
a  prey  to  some  unscrupulous  packer  of  our 
household  goods  at  the  time  when  he  con- 
cluded to  follow  me  to  St.  Paul,  in  June, 
1893.  He  had  a  suspicion  that  it  might 
have  found  its  way  to  a  pawnbroker,  and 
never  gave  up  hoping  for  its  ultimate  re- 
covery. It  had  in  it  some  delightful  mini- 
ature bits  of  character  and  color. 

It  was  in  Villerville  also  that  he  began 
the  "  Sand  Dunes  on  Lake  Ontario,"  now 
hanging  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  New 
York,  with  the  intention  of  sending  it  to 
the  Salon.  But  before  it  was  completed  he 
got  into  one  of  those  hobbles  which  were 
not  uncommon  in  his  experience,  when  the 
more  he  tried  to  hurry  the  less  he  was  in 
reality  accomplishing.  It  was  in  no  con- 
dition to  be  seen  when  the  last  day  for 
sending  came,  as  we  both  agreed,  yet  he 
sent  it.  Naturally  enough,  it  was  rejected. 
I  think  that  result  surprised  him  less  than 
it  momentarily  annoyed  him.    He  put  the 

[41] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

canvas  aside  and  for  months  never  touched 
it.  But  one  day  during  the  next  season, 
while  he  was  painting  on  it,  a  French 
landscapist  and  his  wife  came  to  call 
upon  us.  I  forget  his  name.  He  stud- 
ied it  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  Then 
turning  to  me,  he  said :  "  Your  husband's 
work  reminds  me  strongly  of  that  of  Poin- 
telin.  He  must  send  this  canvas  to  the  next 
Salon."  "  It  has  been  there  once,"  said 
I,  "  and  the  jury  rejected  it,"  adding,  be- 
cause of  his  evident  surprise,  "  It  was  not 
then  in  its  present  condition."  "Never- 
theless," he  replied,  "  I  cannot  understand 
a  French  jury  rejecting  such  a  picture  in 
any  state  in  which  Mr.  Martin  would  have 
sent  it  in  at  all." 

I  do  not  remember  just  why  we  removed 
from  Villerville.  Perhaps  because  Homer 
was  able  to  obtain  in  Honfleur  a  roomy  and 
well-lighted  studio  apart  from  our  dwell- 
ing-place, an  arrangement  which  he  always 
preferred.  The  little  city  from  which  Wil- 
liam the  Norman  set  out  on  his  conquering 
expedition  in  1066  had  not  the  picturesque 

[42] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

charm  of  the  village  we  left,  but  possessed 
compensating  features  in  the  way  of  Eng- 
lish and  American  neighbors.  Our  whole 
sojourn  in  France  was,  in  fact,  delightful, 
and  perhaps  even  more  so  to  me  than  to 
my  husband.  Through  my  mother  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  French  blood  in  my 
veins,  and  in  its  ancestral  environment  it 
throbbed  with  a  rhythmic  atavism  unknown 
elsewhere  to  my  pulses. 

I  think  that  notwithstanding  the  excel- 
lent lighting  arrangements  of  his  studio, 
my  husband  did  not  complete  much  work 
in  Honfleur.  "  The  Mussel  Gatherers,"  to 
me  one  of  the  most  impressive  of  his  later 
canvases,  was  finished  there,  and  though 
I  do  not  recall  another  for  the  Artist  Fund 
Sale,  I  suppose  there  must  have  been  one. 
A  never-completed  studio  interior  with  a 
portrait  of  me,  and  reproductions  in  minia- 
ture of  the  studies  hanging  on  the  walls; 
still  another  small  portrait,  a  number  of 
panels,  one  of  which,  "  Wild  Cherry 
Trees,"  was  in  the  Clarke  Sale  in  1897,  and 
various  water-colors  belong  likewise  to  this 

[43] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

period.  Meanwhile  his  note-books  were 
filling  up  with  material  for  future  use. 

I  sailed  for  New  York  at  the  end  of 
August,  1886,  and  Homer,  who  had  re- 
mained to  finish  some  of  the  things  I  have 
just  named,  followed  me  three  months 
later,  arriving  December  12th  of  that  year. 
In  the  following  spring  he  secured  one  of 
the  studios  in  Fifty-fifth  Street,  having 
previously  utilized  for  that  purpose  a  room 
with  a  north  light  in  an  apartment  we  had 
in  Sixty-third  Street.  In  his  more  con- 
venient quarters  he  painted  a  few  great 
pictures,  among  them  the  "  Low  Tide  at 
Villerville,"  the  "  Sun  Worshipers,"  and 
still  another,  the  title  of  which  I  never 
knew,  and  which  I  never  saw  until  much 
later,  when  going  one  day  with  the  late  Miss 
a'Becket  to  the  Eden  Musee, — I  think  to 
see  something  of  her  own  in  an  exhibition 
then  in  progress,  of  paintings  belonging  to 
private  owners,— this  great  canvas  faced 
me  on  the  line  of  the  opposite  wall,  and 
startled  me  into  the  exclamation :  "  That 
must  be  one  of  Homer's !  "   It  was  full  of 

[  44  ] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

light  and  color.  The  land  on  the  left  sloped 
gradually  down  nearly  to  the  middle  of  the 
foreground,  and  the  wonderful  sheet  of 
water  behind  and  beyond  it  that  fairly  rip- 
pled out  of  the  frame,  was  dazzling.  What 
he  called  it  I  do  not  know.  To  each  other 
we  never  gave  his  landscapes  any  name,  nor 
did  he  to  any  one  else  unless  a  purchaser  re- 
quired a  title,  or  there  was  question  of  a 
catalogue.  I  think,  however,  that  this  can- 
vas may  be  one  which  was  completed  in 
January,  1889,  while  I  was  in  Toledo,  and 
which  was  bought  almost  as  soon  as  finished 
by  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Clarke.  If  so,  it 
changed  hands  very  soon,  and  was  possibly 
taken  away  from  New  York.  Homer 
wrote  me  at  the  time  about  the  sale.  From 
all  I  could  learn  of  the  Memorial  Exhibi- 
tion at  the  Century  Club  in  the  spring  of 
1897— an  exhibition  which,  to  my  lasting 
regret,  closed  just  before  I  was  able  to 
reach  New  York— this  picture  was  not  in- 
cluded in  it. 

His  last  studio  in  New  York— occupied 
from  1890  until  he  went  to  St.  Paul  in 

[45] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

June,  1893 — was  in  a  house  belonging  to 
the  Paulist  Fathers  and  adjoining  their 
Convent  in  Fifty-ninth  Street.  There  he 
painted  the  "  Normandy  Trees,"  the 
"  Haunted  House "  I  have  already  re- 
ferred to  as  belonging  to  Dr.  D.  M.  Stim- 
son,  the  "  Honfleur  Lights  "  now  owned  by 
the  Century  Club,  and  began  the  "  Crique- 
boeuf  Church,"  afterward  completed  in 
St.  Paul.  In  that  house  I  first  observed 
that  his  eyesight,  always  imperfect,  was  be- 
coming still  more  dim.  Never  till  then  had 
I  known  him  to  ask  any  one  to  trace  an  out- 
line for  him.  He  thought,  moreover,  that 
some  serious  internal  trouble  threatened 
him,  and  consulted  both  an  oculist  and  a 
physician.  In  the  early  summer  of  1892, 
believing  that  an  ocean  voyage  would  bene- 
fit him,  he  availed  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity afforded  by  the  sale  to  the  Cen- 
tury Club  of  the  "Honfleur  Lights"  and 
sailed  for  the  last  time  to  England.  He 
spent  a  very  considerable  part  of  his  ab- 
sence at  Bournemouth,  where  resided  the 
family  of  Mr.  George  Chalmers,  friend- 
[46] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

ship  with  whom  must,  I  think,  have  been 
coeval  with  his  entire  life  in  New  York,  and 
lasted,  on  the  part  of  the  survivor,  far  be- 
yond it.  Concerning  this  visit,  Mr.  Chal- 
mers wrote  me  a  few  years  later,  in  reply  to 
my  request  that  he  should  tell  me  about  it: 
"  I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  do  Homer  the 
justice  he  deserves.  Certainly  that  visit 
greatly  endeared  him  to  me  and  to  my  wife, 
and  even  to  our  Harold,  who  was  then  a 
little  mite,  but  who  remembers  him  well.  I 
wish  I  could  remember  some  of  Homer's 
talk,  always  so  charming,  on  our  various 
outings  during  that  happy  time — especially 
about  pictures,  a  subject  with  which  he  was 
eminently  so  familiar.  Two  visits  to  the 
National  Gallery  in  London  I  recall  in  a 
general  sort  of  way,  to  be  sure.  I  remem- 
ber how  stirred  he  was  as  we  stood  before 
the  two  Turners  in  the  National  Gallery, 
presented  by  the  artist  on  condition  that 
they  should  be  placed  next  to  the  Claudes. 
Homer  regarded  Turner's  challenging 
comparison  with  the  great  Frenchman  as 
the  sheerest  audacity,  and  called  attention 
[47] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

to  the  fussiness  and  labored  work  of  the 
Turners  compared  with  the  ease  and  serene 
dignity  and  splendor  of  the  Claudes." 

Curiously  enough,  Mr.  Chalmers  arrived 
in  New  York  from  London  the  next  day 
after  my  own  arrival  from  St.  Paul,  in 
April,  1897,  and  took  what  I  am  sure  could 
not  have  been  altogether  agreeable  pains  in 
order  to  render  me  a  very  important  service. 

During  this  last  absence  of  my  husband 
from  America,!  spent  a  part  of  my  own  va- 
cation in  Ottawa,  and  while  there  received  a 
letter  in  which  he  asked  me  to  write  to  the 
oculist  who  had  examined  him — I  think  it 
was  Dr.  Bull— and  find  out  from  him  pre- 
cisely what  was  the  condition  of  his  eyes.  I 
did  so,  and  received  the  painful  verdict  that 
the  optic  nerve  of  one  of  them  was  dead, 
while  the  other  was  partially  clouded  by  a 
cataract.  I  mention  these  facts  in  order  that 
my  readers  may  get  an  adequate  concep- 
tion of  the  enormous  difficulties  under 
which  his  latest  paintings  were  begun  and 
finished.  Among  these  is  the  autumnal 
known  as  "  The  Adirondacks,"  exhibited  at 

[48] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

the  Century  Club  Memorial  Exhibition, 
and  bought  shortly  afterward  by  Mr.  Un- 
termyer  at  the  sale  of  Mr.  T.  B.  Clarke's 
collection.  Looking  at  it  when  he  was  giv- 
ing his  final  touches,  I  said  to  him: 
"  Homer,  if  you  never  paint  another 
stroke,  you  will  go  out  in  a  blaze  of  glory!  " 
"  I  have  learned  to  paint,  at  last,"  he 
answered.  "  If  I  were  quite  blind  now,  and 
knew  just  where  the  colors  were  on  my 
palette,  I  could  express  myself."  Another 
belonging  to  this  period  is  the  "  View  on  the 
Seine  "  already  referred  to,  and  which  in  an 
earlier  stage  was,  to  my  mind,  still  more 
beautiful  than  it  is  at  present.  In  its  primi- 
tive condition — and,  indeed,  from  the  mo- 
ment when  it  was  first  charcoaled  on  the  can- 
vas, the  trees  so  grouped  that  they  suggested 
by  their  very  contour  the  Harp  to  which  he 
was  inwardly  listening— it  was  supremely 
elegant.  Elegance  is  still  its  characteristic 
feature,  but  I  wish  he  had  left  it  as  I  saw  it 
first.  "  The  trees  were  about  four  hundred 
feet  high!"  he  objected,  when  I  told  him 
so,  and  I  did  not  then,  and  do  not  now,  see 
[49] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

the  force  of  the  objection.  It  was  a  thing 
of  beauty,  anyhow,  and  who  but  a  pedant 
measures  those  except  by  the  optical  illusion 
and  spiritual  impression  they  produce? 

It  was  I  who  went  first  to  St.  Paul, 
where  our  elder  son  resided,  hoping  to  re- 
cover by  means  of  a  long  rest  from  the 
fatigue  entailed  by  incessant  mental  labor. 
I  had  been  editing,  reviewing,  translating, 
finishing  a  novel,  besides  keeping  house, 
and  began  to  feel  as  if  my  own  mainspring 
were  liable  to  snap  at  any  moment.  This 
was  at  the  end  of  December,  1892.  I 
went,  intending  to  return,  and  to  continue 
the  writing  of  book  reviews  during  my 
absence.  But  in  February  I  broke  down 
completely,  gave  up  all  work  and  all  expec- 
tation of  resuming  it  in  New  York.  In  the 
following  June,  Homer  resigned  his  studio 
and  followed  me,  stopping  on  the  way  to 
see  the  Chicago  Exposition,  where  several 
of  his  paintings  were  on  view. 

In  St.  Paul  he  had  for  a  while  a  very 
good  studio  in  one  of  the  life  insurance 
buildings,  and  while  there  completed  sev- 

[50] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

eral  pictures,  among  them  that  of  the 
"  Criqueboeuf  Church,"  selling  it,  almost  as 
soon  as  it  reached  New  York,  to  Mr.  Wil- 
liam T.  Evans.  This  building  was  sold, 
soon  afterward,  and  converted  to  uses  which 
made  it  impossible  as  a  studio. 

If  my  memory  serves  me  correctly,  it  was 
in  the  spring  of  1894  that  the  Century  Club 
had  a  reunion  of  more  than  ordinary  impor- 
tance. The  special  date  and  occasion  I  do 
not  recall,  but  I  know  that  Homer's  pres- 
ence was  so  urgently  desired  by  some  of  his 
friends  that  he  then  paid  his  last  visit  to 
New  York,  and  to  the  place  and  associates 
in  it  which  had  given  him  most  satisfac- 
tion. He  was  absent  some  six  weeks,  pos- 
sibly more,  and  I  have  since  been  told  that 
when  he  left,  his  physical  condition  was 
such  that  his  friends  not  merely  gave  up 
hope  of  seeing  him  again,  but  expected 
speedy  tidings  of  his  death.  But  the  end 
was  not  so  near.  It  was  to  be  preceded  by 
such  a  conquest  of  mind  over  matter,  of 
sheer  will  over  propensities  both  inherited 
and  acquired,  of  triumphant  performance 

[51] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

in  the  face  of  physical  obstacles  apparently 
insurmountable  as  is  altogether  unique  in 
my  experience.  Such  efforts  are  never 
made,  I  take  it,  except  under  the  stimulus 
of  hope,  and  even  that  sheet-anchor  often 
fails  when  the  soul  is  pusillanimous.  But 
Homer  Martin  was  no  coward.  Moreover, 
he  had  always  been  his  own  severest  critic. 
Mr.  Montgomery  Schuyler  has  quoted  him 
as  saying  in  earlier  years  when  the  hangmen 
exalted  him  "  above  the  line  "  in  exhibi- 
tions, and  buyers  accepted  that  verdict  as 
conclusive :  "If  I  could  only  do  it,  they 
would  see  it  fast  enough."  Mr.  Schuyler 
adds :  "  But  this  was  more  modest  than  ex- 
act. Even  after  he  had  attained  the  capa- 
city to  'do  it,'  to  make  canvas  palpitate  with 
light  and  color,  as  the  visitors  to  the  Memo- 
rial Exhibition  know,  the  picture-buyers 
of  twenty  years  ago  still  failed  to  '  see  it.'  " 
But,  at  the  period  of  his  life  with  which 
I  am  now  concerned,  he  was  not  only  con- 
scious that  he  had  attained  full  mastery  of 
his  own  power  of  artistic  expression  by 
means  of  color,  but  he  had  reason  to  believe 

[52] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

that  an  opportunity  had  been  afforded  him 
to  make  that  mastery  triumphantly  evident. 
Although  his  faith  turned  out  to  be  ill- 
founded,  yet  his  belief  to  the  contrary  was 
sufficient  to  make  him  rise  at  once  to  his  full 
strength  and  shake  off  without  apparent 
effort  whatever  other  shackles  had  hitherto 
confined  him.  He  was  like  nothing  so  much 
as  blind  Samson  after  his  hair  had  grown, 
and  he  carried  off  the  gates  of  old  habits 
and  flung  them  aside  as  easily  as  if  he  had 
never  felt  their  weight.  In  the  late  spring 
of  that  year  he  went  away  alone  to  a  quiet 
farm,  taking  with  him  the  canvases  on 
which  "  The  Adirondacks,"  the  "  Seine 
View,"  and  the  "  Normandy  Farm  "  were 
already  charcoaled,  and  set  to  work  at 
their  development  and  completion.  From 
time  to  time  he  would  come  into  the  city, 
his  step  alert  and  his  physical  improve- 
ment so  apparent  in  every  way,  that 
my  apprehension  that  his  health  was  al- 
ready shattered  irreparably  gave  way  to 
confidence  that  years  of  life  and  success- 
ful achievement  were  still  before  him.  As 

[53] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

for  him,  I  think  he  never  fully  believed  that 
the  doctors  were  right  in  considering  his 
bodily  condition  hopeless  until  a  short  time 
before  his  death.  He  had  always  looked 
confidently  forward  to  such  length  of  days 
as  both  of  his  parents  and  others  of  his  more 
remote  forbears  had  attained.  "  I  never 
thought,"  he  said  to  me  one  night,  a  week 
or  two  before  his  death,  "  that  I  was  short- 
ening my  life  in  this  way."  As  to  his 
blindness,  it  never  became  entire,  and  hav- 
ing been  accustomed  from  the  beginning  to 
defective  vision  while  yet  absorbing  his 
material  through  the  eye  and  appealing  to 
it  in  his  production,  he  had,  in  a  measure 
bewildering  to  hear  of  and  barely  credible 
to  us  who  beheld  it  in  its  final  efforts, 
learned  to  rely  almost  entirely  on  his  inward 
vision  and  the  hand  which  responded  as  it 
were  instinctively  to  its  impulse  and  sug- 
gestion. 

The  pictures  I  have  named  went  to  New 
York  in  the  late  autumn  of  1895,  and  were 
at  once  acknowledged  with  hearty  words  of 
praise  and  a  preliminary  check.    My  hus- 

[54] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

band  was  back  at  home  by  this  time,  and, 
full  of  vigor  and  the  anticipation  of  assured 
success,  had  begun  three  or  four  other 
landscapes.  Only  one  of  these  was 
ever  completed,  but  that  was  so  present 
to  his  imagination,  and  his  steady  hand 
moved  in  such  obedience  to  his  will,  that 
it  took  visible  shape  almost  without  an 
effort.  He  had  begun  making  plans  for 
the  future  and  seemed  to  have  renewed  his 
youth.  And  then,  when  the  year  was 
nearly  ended,  his  hopes  were  shattered  by 
the  tidings  that  the  pictures  were  found  to 
be  unsalable,  and  had  been,  or  were  to  be, 
transferred  to  other  hands  which  might  or 
might  not  be  more  successful  in  finding 
purchasers  for  them. 

This  was  the  end,  so  far  as  further  work 
was  concerned.  My  Samson  fell  once  more 
into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines,  and  this 
time  not  to  rise  again. 

Over  those  final  days,  I  have  not  the 
heart  to  linger.  In  all  ways,  they  were 
inexpressibly  painful.  In  August  of  the 
following  year,  a  growth  in  his  throat  made 

[55] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

its  appearance.  Although  it  never  caused 
him  intense  physical  anguish  until  a  few 
days  before  his  death,  when  it  seemed  to 
have  made  its  way  to  the  brain,  it  caused 
him  great  discomfort.  So  long  as  hope  re- 
mained that  it  was  not  malignant  and 
might  be  removed,  he  felt  and  expressed  an 
irritation  which,  under  the  precise  circum- 
stances, was  only  natural.  But  when,  late 
in  October,  about  the  time  of  his  sixtieth 
birthday,  the  specialist  who  was  attending 
him  pronounced  it  cancerous,  his  mood 
changed.  Certain  thoughts,  certain  mem- 
ories, certain  injustices  of  which  he  had  felt 
himself  the  victim,  would  still  move  him  to 
indignation  when  the  recollection  of  them 
recurred,  but  he  bore  his  physical  trials  with 
wonderful  and  unalterable  patience.  A 
Unitarian  clergyman  in  the  neighborhood 
began  calling  on  him  in  the  early  winter 
and  contributed  much  to  his  entertainment 
in  some  of  my  unavoidable  absences.  But, 
as  Christmas  was  approaching,  my  husband 
asked  me  to  request  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Shields,  now  Professor  of  Psychology  in 
[56] 


A  REMINISCENCE 

,the  Catholic  University  at  Washington, 
D.  C,  to  pay  him  a  visit.  Said  he:  "  L —  is 
a  good  fellow;  he  thinks  just  as  I  do  about 
the  tariff  and  the  civil  service,  and  he  likes 
good  books.  But,  what  all  that  has  to  do 
with  his  profession,  considered  as  a  profes- 
sion, I  do  not  clearly  see."  Therefore  I 
preferred  his  request  to  Dr.  Shields,  who 
might  reasonably  have  refused  it,  as  he  was 
not  doing  parish  duty  but  employed  in 
laboratory  work  at  the  Ecclesiastical  Sem- 
inary in  St.  Paul.  He  came,  nevertheless,  a 
number  of  times,  paying  his  last  visit  on  the 
Saturday  evening  before  Homer  died.  And 
then,  before  leaving,  he  said  to  me:  "  There 
is  not  the  ghost  of  a  hope  that  your  husband 
will  do  just  exactly  what  you  wish  him  to 
do.  And,  for  my  part,  I  am  content  to 
leave  him  in  the  hands  of  God  just  as  he  is. 
He  is  absolutely  honest.  If  he  could  take 
another  step  forward,  he  would  do  it." 
And,  on  his  part,  Homer  said  to  me, 
"  Father  Shields  has  the  clearest  mind  of 
any  man  I  ever  met.  I  wish  I  had  known 
him  three  years  ago.  But  now  my  head  is 
[57] 


HOMER  MARTIN 

in  such  anguish  that  I  can  no  longer  keep 
three  or  four  threads  of  argument  in  my 
mind  at  the  same  time." 


One  day  in  Honfleur,  Homer  broke  a 
protracted  silence  by  saying,  "  I  hope  that 
I  shall  die  before  you  do."  To  which  I 
answered,  "  I  hope  so  too."  "  You  think 
that  you  could  get  along  better  without  me 
than  I  could  without  you?  "  he  asked,  and 
I  said,  "  I  know  I  could."  And  now,  two 
days  before  he  died,  he  said,  "  I  am  glad 
that  I  am  going  first  ";  adding  a  few  more 
words  which  it  pleases  me  to  remember, 
but  which  I  shall  not  repeat.  And  again 
I  told  him  that  I  was  glad  also.  Later 
still,  he  asked  me  what  I  meant  to  do  when 
he  was  gone,  and  when  I  said  I  hoped  to 
enter  a  convent,  he  replied,  "  That  is  just 
what  I  supposed.  Well,  it  is  a  beautiful 
life." 


[58] 


J  GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITUTE  L 

3  3125  01360  2723 

